


Nice Day For It

by RurouniHime



Series: Day series [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Action, Badass, Established Relationship, Guns, Humor, Love, M/M, Minor Injuries, Plans, Protectiveness, Wedding Night, Wedding Rings, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-29
Updated: 2012-04-29
Packaged: 2017-11-04 13:22:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/394346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RurouniHime/pseuds/RurouniHime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"I had plans," Arthur grates aloud.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nice Day For It

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Nice Day For It](https://archiveofourown.org/works/741507) by [echochen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/echochen/pseuds/echochen)



> STUNNING watercolor of [Arthur not getting his preferred wedding day](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v484/Jezamin/art/inception_nice-day-for-it.jpg) by beili. Wow! *still breathless here*

It’s Saturday. They spend it under a hail of gunfire, Eames with a notable amount of blood draining from his arm. The expression on Arthur’s face has not changed in two hours. He pumps round after round from his rifle, eye locked to the scope. And then he turns the look on Eames, prodding his shoulder, bandaging with fingers tacky from blood. His movements are swift and mechanical; even the touch of four fingertips to Eames’ cheek as he reloads the Glock for him and draws away.

 _We’ll be in and out,_ Peters had said, on Wednesday. _Two days, tops._

It’s their wedding day.

Eames manages well, ties up his wound again with the leftovers of his dress shirt. Arthur has small nicks on his right cheek, the side of his nose, the downward curve of his mouth, one red and slanting through his eyebrow. The surface of his leather jacket is sliced and hatched at the shoulder as if to reveal a pattern underneath; shrapnel cuts from the cement barrier they’re kneeling behind, the ricochet of the bullet that gallivanted through Eames’ upper arm.

“Photographer’s not going to like us,” Eames says, and levels the gun behind Arthur over his shoulder, fires straight and hits right in the forehead of the first projection onto the roof. Arthur murmurs. The rifle lets loose again. On the next building over, a man with a rocket launcher tumbles flat.

“I had _plans_ ,” Arthur grates aloud. “Fucking plans.” Eames can hear the fury lying low in his voice, the root dug in deep, already spiraling out, yanking echoes of their mark’s mind into the abyss with each economical squeeze of that trigger. Eames loves how Arthur’s hands look around the gun, the way the left cradles the forend, the curve of his finger through the trigger guard, the angle of Arthur’s wrist emerging from his sleeve, the material tugged up by the butt of the rifle where it sits wedged under his arm. The way his body tenses for the recoil.

Eames hears the frenzied slap of feet, takes aim with the Glock, shoots. Then grabs hold of Arthur and yanks him down, pulling him tight against his chest, the rifle hot between them as the projection’s grenade thunks too far to the left. Arthur crooks an elbow up, shields Eames’ head. The blast wave feels like the thud of a rampaging semi. 

Eames coughs. Blinks in the swirl of dust. “Arthur?”

Arthur lifts his head. His face, streaked and pale, is the only thing visible in the cloud of detritus. He gazes up at Eames, lying across his chest, his expression open and calm. “Mr. Eames,” he returns mildly. And sniffs against the dust.

The helicopter comes in fast, nearly skidding over the rooftop. Its black and white paint is disorienting, each beat of its rotors whams against Eames’ ears, and Arthur lunges up and tucks him low again, one arm back over his head. Eames gets a face full of dirt nonetheless, and through it, a shadow has escaped the chopper’s strafing, too plain for second guesses, too quick for thought. Eames shoots the man dead, both arms raised either side of Arthur, braced against Arthur, wrapped around Arthur.

“Marry me, darling,” he says, and gives Arthur a smile so wide he can feel the grit showering his teeth.

The ends of Arthur’s mouth wend upward at last. Somewhere, somehow, between gun and clothing and helicopter thrum, his fingers find Eames’ hand and squeeze, rubbing right where the cool metal band circles beneath his knuckle. “What I fully intend to do.”

Much easier if they could just leave. Eames always saves two bullets for the end game in the left front pocket of his trousers. But they’re there to buy time while Peters gets what they came for, while Ariadne transfigures the maze, while Sonya cleans house with her chopper, while the mark loses his grip on all he holds dear. 

Arthur presses his lips firmly to Eames’ chest, to the filthy white undershirt just over his heart, and pushes off to his knees. Reaches, and pulls Eames up. From his new vantage point, Eames sees what’s coming, jerks his head sideways and Arthur lunges out of the way. Eames shoots, but it costs them: there is another projection, now too close. Arthur spins, reverses the rifle, whips the butt up into the chin of the woman as she raises her pipe over their heads. The helicopter hums overhead, its gale pushing them flat to the roof once more. The blades tilt forward and projections turn, scatter in all directions. Eames ducks low, crouches in the shadow of the barrier, and feels Arthur’s body heat beating against his side, Arthur’s arm looped tight around his middle.

They had reservations at the Palisades Inn. Penthouse suite. Chilled wine glasses and private balcony and cream towels and a king-size bed in the exact center of the room. Chocolate truffles in the refrigerator, which Arthur knows nothing about.

“Honeymoon’ll be bloody boring after this,” Eames says, raising his voice over the noise as the chopper swings by again, evading a rocket.

“Don’t bet on it,” Arthur mutters silkily into his ear.

Eames laughs, turns his head and kisses Arthur’s temple. His hair, falling to frame his face, still smells like his pomade. Arthur clenches his hand one last time, and picks up the rifle again.

~fin~

**Author's Note:**

> And now I am going to shamelessly beg for art. Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease? I'll write you a fic... O.O

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [UnDays](https://archiveofourown.org/works/594976) by [RurouniHime](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RurouniHime/pseuds/RurouniHime)




End file.
